


A Boyfriend for Christmas

by hapakitsune



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Coming Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: Jon said, “So you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend.”“No acting required,” Ronan said. “Just—don’t correct them if they make that guess to your face.”





	A Boyfriend for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abriata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abriata/gifts).



> to abriata! As an admirer of your writing and you, I do hope you enjoy this. Thanks to the Gang for their help and validation in the writing of this, and thank you to caffeine. Merry Yuletide and as always, keep it secret; keep it safe.

Two weeks before Christmas, Ronan spent an hour thumbing through Twitter, then his contacts, and then back again, all the while trying to come up with a reason not to do what he was thinking. It was stupid—he already knew that. It was probably unnecessary—he knew that too. But there was a selfish part of him that needed this, and he had one person who could help him out. So finally, he went to his favorites and hit Jon’s number, waiting through the rings until Jon picked up with a friendly, “Hey, Ronan.”

“Hey,” Ronan said. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“If you want to get cast in my sure to be a hit television show, you’ll have to do a screen test,” Jon said. “Other than that, shoot.”

Ronan sat on his couch, drumming his fingers against his knee. “It’s okay if you say no, it’s kind of a weird request anyway. You know what, this is stupid, never mind—”

“Whoa there, why don’t you tell me what it is first?” Jon said, voice softening. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, things are fine,” Ronan said. “Just, uh—look, I don’t know what you’re doing on Christmas—”

“Generally, as a Jew, I would be eating Chinese food and watching a movie, but your co-opted pagan winter festival happens to fall in the middle of our deep and meaningful celebration of the wondrous power of oil,” Jon said. “So I’ll be lighting the menorah in the window and eating frozen latkes.”

“Oh,” Ronan said. “Never mind then, forget it.”

“If you’re asking for a favor on Christmas Day, then fire away,” Jon said. “It’s Hanukkah, it isn’t one of the High Holidays.”

“You aren’t going home?”

“Get to the point, Farrow,” Jon said. 

“Shit. Sorry.” Ronan rubbed his face, wished he’d had a drink before this, and let out a sigh. “Okay, so every year we have this insane gathering at my mom’s place in Connecticut—”

“And by your mom you mean movie legend Mia Farrow, continue.”

Ronan made a face at the phone. “Are you gonna let me talk or what? The point is, the entire family comes, and there’s a lot of us. I mean, nine of my siblings come, and some of them have kids, and the whole thing is—that isn’t the point. What I’m trying to ask is will you come with me?”

“Is there something wrong?” Jon asked, a note of concern coloring his voice. “I should say, I’m more than happy to take some pressure off if that’s what it is, but if you’re not comfortable going home—”

“No, it isn’t that,” Ronan said. “It’s just—they don’t know I’m gay. I mean, they probably know, but they don’t _know_. If you know what I mean.”

“I do know,” Jon said. “Where do I come in?”

This was, Ronan reflected, a monumentally stupid idea. “I don’t want to make Christmas about me coming out or whatever—I was hoping I could bring you and let them make their own assumptions from there.”

There was a brief pause while Jon processed this. Then he said, “So you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend.”

“No acting required,” Ronan said. “Just—don’t correct them if they make that guess to your face.”

“I mean, I could answer detailed questions about your sex habits,” Jon said, at which point Ronan started breaking into semi-hysterical laughter. “Ronan? Okay, it wasn’t that funny, even I admit that.”

“No, it’s just—fuck me, this is a bad idea,” Ronan said. “But you’ll do it?”

“Sure,” Jon said. “Are you kidding me? Christmas at the Farrow compound? This’ll get me into every door in Hollywood if I play my cards right.” 

“Naturally,” Ronan said. “Seriously, you’re coming?”

“Yes, how many times do I have to say it? Now, is this a black tie formal event? Should I be bringing spats and a cummerbund?”

Ronan rolled his eyes and said, “Fuck you, just bring normal clothes. We’re a normal family.”

“No such thing,” Jon said, and hung up. Ronan dropped his phone onto the couch and grabbed a pillow to suffocate himself with, feeling that twenty-three-almost-twenty-four was far too old to be making stupid decisions about a crush. A crush, he reminded himself, who had moved across the country. 

But reminding himself of the distance between them did little to erase the memories of Jon’s hands on his skin, or the way the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, or the way he’d workshop his jokes before making them to a group, smiling triumphantly when the joke worked. He’d convinced himself that once Jon was gone, out of sight, out of mind, he’d get over the way his hands trembled at Jon’s texts. That he’d stop lying awake at night and fantasizing about asking Jon if they might go on a real date, not just their...whatever that they had been doing until the day Jon got on the plane to Los Angeles. 

Three months it had been so far, and still Ronan wanted. He’d tried, gone on a date here and there, but had always come home alone to text Jon about the video game he was playing, arguing over the different Elder Scrolls games until Ronan was yawning over his screen. 

“It isn’t getting better,” he’d told Shannon when she’d asked how he was doing. Shannon had laughed down the line. It had been a sad laugh. 

“I know, honey,” she’d said. 

Ronan reached out again for his phone, thinking he should text Jon and tell him never mind. Then he thought of sitting at the dining table, surrounded by twenty of his family members, telling them he was gay, and his stomach dropped at the mere thought. 

It wasn’t a rational response, he knew that. His family was loving, close-knit despite the sheer number of them, and they would be fine with him being gay. But he wanted someone at his side for that moment, and the thought of waiting one more year in hopes that he’d meet someone (meet someone other than Jon) who he’d like enough to bring home was terrifying. Another year of biting his tongue when someone asked if he had a girlfriend, of feeling like he was hiding from the people he loved most in the world—no.

Instead, he picked up the phone and texted, _Thanks again_ to Jon. A minute later, his phone buzzed with the response. 

_Always, genius boy_. 

“Fuck you,” Ronan said to the phone, and went into the kitchen to see if he had any wine left. 

*  
The first time Ronan and Jon met was in a hotel ballroom across a high-top table covered in cocktail glasses and appetizer plates, which was how most people in DC met. DC was, in many ways, a small town within a big city. Everyone knew everyone, there were few secrets, and all of it was covered by the ever-present press corps, so Ronan had heard plenty about Jon Lovett. What was strange is that they hadn’t met yet. 

Ronan was walking with Tommy Vietor from the NSC, talking about relief planning, when Tommy said suddenly, “Oh there he is. Ronan, come meet Lovett.”

Jon Lovett was shorter than Ronan expected from Tommy’s stories, stocky and bright-eyed in a slightly crumpled suit. He looked, like many White House staffers, as though he hadn’t slept since 2008. He was standing alone at one of the tables with a plate piled high with shrimp and tiny canapés, occasionally looking down at his phone, and frankly Ronan didn’t see anything of the vibrant, funny writer Tommy had gushed about, just another DC guy.

“Lovett’s great,” Tommy was saying, “I think you’ll get along,” and then he raised his hand in a dorky wave and called, “Lovett!”

Jon looked up, eyes finding Tommy right away, and grinned, bright and open. 

_Oh,_ Ronan thought.

“Hey, Tommy! Have you seen this bullshit on Twitter? I think that Hannity is losing what little he had left in the tank.” Jon pointed at his phone with a toothpick. 

“Get off Twitter, you’re at an event,” Tommy said, but he was smiling fondly, the way he always did when he was talking about Jon. More than anything, that smile was what had made Ronan want to meet him; anyone who could make Tommy smile like that had to be worth meeting. “Lovett, you remember I mentioned Ronan Farrow? He works with your old boss.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Jon’s attention shifted to Ronan, his gaze flicking over him lightning quick. Ronan went hot and tingly all over, like he’d stuck his fingers into a socket. “Hey,” Jon said. “Nice to finally meet you. Tommy speaks highly of you.” 

His words were polite, but his gaze was already slipping past Ronan, mentally moving on, and Ronan, without thinking, said, “I wish I could say the same about you.”

Tommy choked, but Jon’s eyes snapped back to Ronan, another smile curling at his lips. “Oh yeah? Tommy Vietor has been talking shit about me?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Ronan said, deadpan. They both looked at Tommy, who had gone bright red. “Endless complaining.”

“Okay, I see how it is,” Tommy said. “Ganging up on me, huh?”

“You introduced us,” Jon pointed out. “Ronan, you want a shrimp?” He held out his plate, a smirk pulling at his mouth as his gaze slid towards Tommy. Ronan had the distinct impression that he was stepping into an inside joke, but hey, shrimp. He picked one up by the tail and popped in his mouth.

“You asshole,” Tommy said, grinning at Jon. To Ronan he said, “He never lets me eat his food.”

“I don’t want you to ruin your figure,” Jon said. “You’ve worked so hard for it. Don’t you think it would be a shame for him to ruin that physique?” He enunciated the _ique_ with an over-the-top crispness. Ronan had to stifle a giggle. He turned to look at Tommy, making a show of evaluating him as Tommy turned steadily redder. Ronan winked at him before nodding solemnly at Jon. 

“You’re doing the nation a service by keeping Tommy Vietor in peak condition,” he said. “I salute you.”

“I like you,” Jon announced. “Tommy, I like him. Let’s keep him.”

“I’m having so many regrets,” Tommy said. “I’m going to find some food I don’t have to steal.”

“Keep that physique tight!” Jon called after him, then caught Ronan’s eye. They both burst into laughter as Tommy flipped them off. 

“There a reason you don’t let Tommy eat off your plate?” Ronan asked, filching another shrimp off Jon’s plate. “He’s reasonably clean from what I can tell.”

“Too clean,” Jon said. “If he wants to eat skinless chicken and plain spinach, that’s his prerogative, but he doesn’t get to steal fries off my plate while he does.” He held up a shrimp and said, “I’m Tommy Vietor, I’m tall and handsome and eat better than you,” in a slightly deepened version of his normal voice. “Oh, fries? I shouldn’t. Oh, maybe just one. Or three. Ugh, spare me.”

“Fair enough,” Ronan said. He took a third shrimp, watching Jon watch him, and ate it before dropping the tail on the plate. “I’d let him eat off my plate any day.”

“Oh, would you?” Jon asked, arching his eyebrows.

“A smart, attractive man eating out of my hand?” Ronan shrugged, the small part of him that was always astonished at verbal admissions of his sexuality doing anxiety cartwheels in his stomach. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“What a shame he’s heterosexual,” Jon said. “I tell him every day, we’ll take him for our own if he’ll just let it happen.”

Ronan laughed again. He was buzzing like he’d had three glasses of champagne instead of one, and every time he made Jon smile he felt it like another shot. “I’m not sure my ego could take it.”

“I’m sure your ego would be just fine,” Jon said. “Mine, on the other hand…”

“From what I understand, you do just fine,” Ronan said, only regretting it when he had finished speaking. Luckily Jon didn’t seem offended; if anything, he seemed pleased. 

“Oh yeah?” Jon leaned his elbows on the table, all attention now focused on him. “Like what?”

“Tommy talks,” Ronan said. That wasn’t entirely true; Ronan had made a point to inquire, discreetly, after the scene in DC, and Jon’s name had come up more than a few times. It was small town, after all, and Jon had a definite presence. 

“Well, I’m no Jon Favreau, but I do okay,” Jon said. “I bet you do too with those old Hollywood looks.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “I don’t really trade in on the Hollywood part.”

“You don’t need to,” Jon said. “You work for the State Department, trade on that.”

“Is that what you do?” Ronan asked. “Name drop POTUS and see what happens?”

“Again,” Jon said, “I’m no Jon Favreau.” He grinned when Ronan laughed. “You don’t have a drink, you want a drink? Are you old enough to drink?”

“I’m twenty-three,” Ronan said. 

“So old,” Jon said. “So wise. Jesus, twenty-three. What am I doing with my life? Let’s get you a drink.”

Ronan followed in his wake toward the bar, pointing out, “You were a White House speechwriter at, what, twenty-six?”

“Three years older than you became a special adviser to the Secretary of State,” Jon said. “You’re some kind of genius, aren’t you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ronan said as they came up to the bar. Jon leaned against the edge and raised his eyebrows. He was a smidge shorter than Ronan, pushing up on his toes to get his elbows on the bar. 

“You’re twenty-three,” Jon said. “You’re a lawyer, Tommy said, so you had to do law school. Let’s say that took you three years. Before that you’d have had to get a bachelor’s, so that takes us to, what, sixteen when you started college?”

“Uh,” Ronan said, flush rising, “not exactly.”

“I was a math major,” Jon said. “Tell me where I went wrong.”

“There were a few years between my bachelor’s and my law degree,” Ronan said.

“You’re kidding me. How many years?”

Ronan rubbed the back of his neck. He tried not to make a big deal out of it, but part of him liked the way Jon was looking at him like he was impressed, like he’d never seen anyone quite so interesting. “About, let’s say, four?”

Jon blinked, then said, “You started college at _twelve_?”

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “Let me tell you, the parties were crazy.”

Jon stared at him, then threw his head back and laughed. It was an amazing sound, deep like he was laughing with his whole body and the sound was reverberating through him. “Holy shit. You’re Doogie Howser.”

“Yeah, I’ve never heard that one before,” Ronan said. “Though I’ll admit I had a crush on him as a kid.”

“Naturally. Who wouldn’t?” Jon waved down the bartender and pointed at Ronan. “What do you want?”

Drinks in hand, they wandered back to where Jon had left his plate of appetizers, debating the finer points of Doogie Howser, MD. Jon Favreau intercepted them along the way, asked a series of one-word questions that Jon answered with brief nods and shakes of his head, before waving hi at Ronan and disappearing back into the crowd. Ronan watched him go, slightly nonplussed. 

“Are the two of you joined telepathically?” he asked. 

“Ugh, god,” Jon said. “That’s a horrifying thought.” He daintily sipped from his drink before diving back into his plate of food. “Want any?” he asked through a mouthful of mushroom tart. 

Ronan snagged one off his plate, chewed, and swallowed before saying, “Did you scope out the food before anything else?”

“I’m not a fool,” Jon said. “Why do you think I come to these things?”

“Because you believe in the process?”

“Come on,” Jon said. “You’ve been in DC for long enough to know that no one believes in the process.”

“Remarkably cynical for a guy who works for the president who ran on hope,” Ronan said. 

“Yeah, well, I worked for the other gal then.” Jon picked up a spring roll, inspected it, then popped the entire thing in his mouth. “Tell Secretary Clinton I say hi. Maybe she’ll even remember me.”

Ronan, who had known Jon for less than half an hour at this point, found it hard to imagine that anyone who’d ever met him forgot about him easily. “I’ll do that. Should I be worried that knowing you will lower my stock with her?”

Jon laughed again and said, “Only if you say you like me.”

“Well, that’s it then,” Ronan said. “I don’t want to lie to her, so I’ll just have to avoid mentioning you.”

Jon cast him a sidelong look, a more considering expression on his face than Ronan had seen yet. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Are you going to stop me if I am?”

“Only going to ask you what you’re thinking,” Jon said. “I mean, look at you. Look at me. You could walk out into this party and find a half dozen people who’d make an honest man of you, easy.”

“I’m fine here,” Ronan said, and he took another shrimp from Jon’s plate. He licked the cocktail sauce from his fingers, caught Jon’s eye, and smiled. 

“Huh,” Jon said. “Want another drink?”

One drink had led to a second had led to them sharing a taxi to the apartment Jon shared with Tommy and another speechwriter. Ronan sobered up along the way, the warmth from the alcohol fading, but the desire in his gut only rising. He couldn’t stop glancing over at Jon, grinning giddily when Jon caught him looking, and he kept his hands in his lap because he knew if he reached across the middle seat to touch Jon, he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

Beneath Jon’s clothes, his skin was soft, his body warm. Ronan pressed close, hands winding beneath Jon’s dress shirt—only half-unbuttoned, Ronan really should remedy that—as they kissed in the darkened hallway of Jon’s shared apartment. It had started rain as they headed back, a freak downpour that had left them both giddy and dashing from the car. Once inside, Ronan had barely gotten his coat off before Jon was kissing him, any reserve he’d had at the party gone now that they were alone. 

And oh, did Jon know how to kiss. Ronan knew his own sexual and romantic education was eccentric, to say the least—going to college at twelve meant missing out on the usual sexual exploration associated with receiving a first degree—and he’d had his share of unfortunate experiences, but _Jon_. Jon kissed with a single-mindedness that was as impressive as it was knee-shakingly intimidating, and Ronan gave back as much as he could, clinging to Jon as they stumbled about, falling over the boots and bags dropped in the hall. 

“Fuckin—” Jon groaned as he knocked into something. “Goddammit, Cody.” He kicked back with his heel, dropped his hands to Ronan’s hips. “This feels a little too college.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ronan said, chasing Jon’s mouth. “At least you have a private room. You have a private room, don’t you?”

“Of-fucking-course I do,” Jon said. “You’re right, what are we still doing out here?” He dipped his fingers into Ronan’s waistband, strokes the skin there contemplatively. From the streetlight fading through the window, Ronan could just about see the way Jon’s gaze dropped down, then back up again. “Although the hallway does have a certain appeal.”

“Looking to get caught?” Ronan asked. 

“Tell me it wouldn’t be fun to see Tommy’s face,” Jon said. He leaned back in to kiss Ronan again, his grip on Ronan’s hips tightening briefly. “Okay, okay. Yeah. Bed. Let’s go there.”

Jon’s room looked a bit like a tornado of paperwork had blown through it, though as Ronan’s had looked much the same when he’d been in law school, he hardly could throw stones. Ronan knocked into the desk by accident, stumbled into the bed, then gave up the fight and sprawled out on top of the duvet while he wriggled out of his clothes. Jon, who had finally finished unbutton his shirt, paused in the middle of taking off his pants to watch. 

“You want a show?” Ronan teased. 

“Kind of, yeah,” Jon said, which, okay, Ronan could do that. 

He didn’t get very far, though—just as far as lifting his shirt up, just past his nipples—before Jon made a pained noise and said, “Look at you. What are you doing here with me?”

“I like your smile,” Ronan said. He finished getting his shirt off and dropped it beside the bed. “And honestly I think I’d really like to fuck you.”

“You know the way to a boy’s heart,” Jon said. 

By the time they both managed to fully divest themselves of clothing, Ronan’s heart was hammering hard, nearly painful, and he couldn’t stop shivering, waiting for Jon to touch him again. And Jon did, running his hands over Ronan’s arms, down his chest and stomach, across his hips and thighs before wrapping his fingers around Ronan’s cock. 

“Fuck,” Ronan said breathlessly. Jon grinned at him, face just discernible in the darkness, and then took the head in his mouth. 

Ronan’s head thumped back against the pillows as all his focus narrowed down to the hot, wet tightness of Jon’s mouth. He was surrounded, every fiber of him blazing with pleasure, and he was shaking, trembling with need. Jon’s hands glided over the tops of Ronan’s thighs, a welcome distracting counterpoint to the soft strokes of his tongue along the underside of Ronan’s dick. Ronan’s hand met Jon’s, fingers briefly intertwining before Jon guided his hand to the back of his head to tangle in the curls there. Ronan twisted his fingers into Jon’s thick hair and tried very hard not to push up into Jon’s mouth. 

His orgasm came hard, brought on with an expert twist of Jon’s hand and a coaxing from that talented tongue. Ronan pulled Jon’s head away as he came, trying to avoid his face. But Jon just ducked back down, mouthing at the head of Ronan’s dick as come spilled over and across his mouth and chin. Ronan watched him in amazement, then said, “Kiss me,” and Jon came willingly. 

They kissed, messily, and Ronan got his hand around Jon’s dick—hot and so hard Ronan didn’t know how he could stand it—and jerked him off, relishing every gasping, hitching breath Jon exhaled against his skin. Ronan dug his other hand into Jon’s hip, keeping him still, and then tilted his head back when Jon started kissing down his throat. Jon bit, seemingly on accident, when he came—not particularly hard, but enough of a sting that Ronan’s dick twitched. Ronan turned his head so he could kiss Jon again, swallowing down Jon’s quiet sighs as he pulsed come over Ronan’s hand and stomach.

After, Ronan and Jon lay side by side in the dark, just breathing, until the sensation of drying come on his stomach forced Ronan to get up and head to the bathroom for a quick rinse. He caught sight of his face in the mirror and saw that his mouth was swollen from kisses, and that Jon had left stubble burn on the side of his neck. Ronan pressed his fingers to the red skin, shivered with a surprising stab of desire. 

“Are you staying or leaving?” Jon asked when Ronan came back into the bedroom. He was propped up on his elbows, expression suddenly guarded. Ronan hadn’t realized just how open Jon was being, not until now. 

“Staying,” Ronan said. “If that’s all right.”

“I won’t say no,” Jon said. He watched Ronan come in, gaze unmoving until Ronan had settled next to him on the bed. “Seriously, though. What are you doing here with me?”

“I told you,” Ronan said. “Your smile.” He reached out and pushed up at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “It’s a nice one.”

“If you say so.” Jon turned his head to bite at Ronan’s finger. “You have a nice everything.”

“Sweet talker,” Ronan said breathlessly. “I’m already here.”

“Yeah, well,” Jon said, but didn’t continue. He turned so that he was lying on his back. “You gotta ask the question sometimes in this town. Most times there are strings attached if they work in politics too.”

“That happen often?” Ronan asked. 

“More than I’d like,” Jon said. “Tommy likes you, though, which is already a step above most of them.”

“Most of who?”

“Them.” Jon waved his hand vaguely, as if to encompass the entire state. “The closeted GOP guys who won’t ever kiss you on the cheek outside, the lobbyists who want to turn pillow talk into a pitch for their cause, the reporter who you definitely can’t and shouldn’t trust. That last one hasn’t happened, by the way, I just watched a lot of West Wing and there are a few decent-looking journalists in the pool.”

“Do you have a thing for journalists?” Ronan asked. 

“I like smart people,” Jon said. “And good writers. God, do you know how big a crush I had on Jon when I first started? His speeches, man. Enough to make you cry and then want to change the world.”

“I get that.” Ronan wondered, briefly, what Jon might think of his writing, were he to ever read it. Which was stupid—this was a hook-up, maybe a friends with benefits situation. Ronan was smart enough to read the room. “What about you? Do you want to change the world?”

“I’d settle for changing this country first,” Jon said. “Sometimes I think even that’s a losing battle.”

He sounded exhausted, burnt up. DC did that to people, Ronan knew. He had been around politics for years now, though not as embedded in it as he was now, and he’d seen how it chewed people up. People came in bright and eager to make a difference and left exhausted and worn. It wasn’t always bad; some of them accomplished amazing things in the process. But there was no question that DC was a full-time place, and there was no escaping work when it was on the news every night at nine. 

“It isn’t,” Ronan said. “We need people like you.”

“Not me,” Jon said. “I write the jokes. And don’t ask don’t tell speeches. Token homosexual and all that.” He sighed. “I guess I thought I’d be Sam Seaborn.” He paused, then said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“I don’t mind,” Ronan said. “Are you unhappy?”

“This is the dream,” Jon said. “I’m writing for the president of the United States, how could I be unhappy?” His tone trailed off as though he had said this to himself a hundred times, like he was still trying to convince himself. 

Ronan searched for something to say, but couldn’t find the right words. He still felt a swell of pride and optimism when he came into work and saw Secretary Clinton. But he could hear the struggling brewing behind Jon’s words, and he knew well that panicky feeling of not knowing what to do next. At fifteen, he’d had a college degree and no plans for what to do next, and he’d spent most of the ensuing year questioning every decision he made, until he learned to trust his own judgment.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Ronan said. “But if you aren’t happy—”

“I’m thinking of leaving the White House,” Jon said, then, “Shit. That’s the first time I’ve said that out loud.” 

In the darkness, Ronan reached out for Jon’s hand, groping about until he found it. Jon grasped tight, almost panicky. Ronan rubbed his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand until Jon’s breathing evened out. Without being able to see Jon’s face, it was as though they were in suspended animation, somewhere outside reality; Ronan wished they never had to leave. 

“What do you want to do next?” Ronan asked. “Lion tamer? Actor? Run for office?”

“I was thinking of going to California,” Jon said. “Try my hand at a different kind of writing. Maybe. I don’t know. Is that stupid?”

“Nah,” Ronan said. “I think that’s brave.”

Jon squeezed Ronan’s hand. “That’s because you’re twenty-three and not an old crone like me. This is the kind of thing that should either be a bright-eyed college graduate’s bad decision or a midlife crisis, and I’m neither.”

“Look,” Ronan said, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my mom, it’s that you’ve got to make your own happiness. It doesn’t just come to you. Not real happiness, anyway. You have to take chances.”

Jon was quiet for a while before he said, “That’s really fucking profound, Ronan. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Ronan said. He thought about unwinding their fingers, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “If this is your midlife crisis, am I the young hot thing you take up as a mistress?”

“Who said you were hot?” Jon asked. “Never mind, who am I kidding, you’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen in person. It’s ridiculous.” Jon’s hand hit Ronan in the face and Ronan winced as Jon fumbled his way, pressing against the line of his nose, down to his lips. “That mouth, do you know how obscene this mouth is?”

“You already got me in bed,” Ronan said. “No need to sweet talk me.”

“I don’t have to,” Jon agreed. “But I totally can.” He put on an overly flirtatious voice. “Oh Ronan, you’re the smartest, handsomest boy in the whole world.”

“Fuck off,” Ronan said, and he’d kissed Jon until they had both dissolved into laugher. 

In the morning, Ronan had kept sneaking back to Jon’s bed to kiss him, each time saying, “I’m going, I’m really going,” as Jon sprawled out in the bed with his phone in one hand and a can of Diet Coke in the other. The third time Ronan did it, Jon arched his eyebrows and said, “Watch it, genius boy, I might start to think you care.”

Ronan opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, then realized—well, he did. He had to go back to his apartment, had to shower (again) and look over the paperwork that had been couriered to his place, but he wanted to stay right here, curled up in Jon’s bed. He had a sudden vision of them, curled up together as they worked in silence, occasionally turning to exchange a kiss, and in that moment, it felt so real that when he blinked and found himself looking down at Jon, it was as though he had awoken from a dream. 

“Give me your phone,” Ronan said instead. Jon obligingly passed it over, and Ronan spent a minute inputting his information into Jon’s contacts. “Call me if you ever feel like a repeat show, at least until you leave for the west coast.” He was impressed with how clean the words came out, sounding authentically light and carefree. He tossed the phone back and Jon caught it, a slow grin curling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Sure thing, genius boy,” Jon said. 

“Stop calling me that,” Ronan said. “See you around,” and he took himself out of the room before he could give into the temptation to crawl back in bed with Jon. 

He had made it to the metro and was waiting for his train when his phone buzzed. _See you around, genius boy_ , it said. Ronan covered the message with his thumb and thought, quite clearly, _Fuck._

*  
Jon flew in on the twenty-third and stumbled off the plane in Hartford looking a little worse for wear. “Six hours,” he said after hugging Ronan hello. “Six fucking hours. I’ve done it before but it never gets less awful.”

“You chose to move across the country from everyone you know,” Ronan reminded him. It was weird seeing Jon like this; most of the time when they’d hung out in DC it had been to hook up. He found himself wondering where to put his hands. Jon didn’t seem to notice Ronan’s awkwardness, just hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder.

“Well,” Jon said, “I’m finding that LA life suits me.”

He did look good; in the last few weeks before Jon had pulled the plug and flown the coop, he had been looking pale and harried, the circles under his eyes a permanent fixture. He’d lost weight, not in a good way, and Ronan had worried about him but had kept his mouth shut, not entirely sure where the borders of their relationship ended but knowing that expressing concern for Jon’s health was surely past it. 

Now, he was tanner, though not exactly _tan_ , and had put weight back on. He was smiling without effort, a levity to his voice that had been missing before. Ronan realized he hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d spotted Jon at baggage claim and tried to make himself stop. He lasted about five seconds.

“Any celebrity near encounters?” Ronan asked, taking Jon’s suitcase from him. 

“I did get invited to spend Christmas at the home of Hollywood royalty, I don’t know if you’ve heard of them—” Jon started, grinning, and Ronan hip-checked him as they exited into the cold, brisk Connecticut air. 

The drive to the house was a little long, and they filled the time by exchanging stories about mutual friends and what they’d been doing for the previous few months. Jon talked about the television show he was working on, talked in breathless wonder about talking to a producer from _The Newsroom_ about maybe being involved in the next season—“Fucking crazy, right?”—and how he was thinking about getting a dog. 

“I never thought I was a particularly needy person, emotionally,” Jon said—Ronan managed not to snort aloud—“but the house gets quiet.”

“A dog would be nice,” Ronan said. “Send pictures.”

“Pup pics,” Jon said. “Obviously.”

When Ronan turned up the long, freshly shoveled driveway to his mom’s cabin, Jon went quiet. Ronan looked out over the vast expanse of land, the crisp white of snow stretching out to the edge of the little frozen pond. Overhead, fir trees cast dappled shadows through the windows, and Ronan saw all of it with a new sense of wonder, knowing Jon was seeing it for the first time. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Jon said after a moment. “God. It’s _really_ gorgeous. One thing California doesn’t have a lot of is snow.”

“Don’t worry,” Ronan said. “I give it maybe an hour, two tops before you’re dragged into an all-out snowball war by my nieces and nephews.”

Ronan pulled into the sheltered parking area, where six cars were already waiting. Ronan got out and circled around to open the trunk for his and Jon’s bags, hearing the sound of the front door creaking open. When Jon came to help him, Ronan held out a hand. 

“I feel like I need to warn you,” Ronan said. “You know how many siblings I have, and I’m sure you’ve thought about how crazy it’s bound to be, but I just want you to know, no matter what you’re picturing: it’s a hundred times worse.”

“Now you tell me,” Jon said. 

“Uncle Ronan!” came the ear-splitting shriek of his niece Olivia, and Ronan turned as she came tearing down the front path, kicking up snow as she went. Years of practice meant he could crouch and scoop her up without falling over, and he hoisted her up onto his shoulder, though at age six she was getting a little big for it. 

“Hi there,” he said, bopping her nose. Olivia had his sister Summer’s looks, with a wide smile and smooth dark hair that was pulled into neatly braided pigtails. “Were you waiting for us?”

“Grandma said to,” she said. She peered curiously over his shoulder at Jon. “Who’s he?”

“This is my friend Jon,” Ronan said, glancing at Jon who was watching them with a strangely inscrutable expression. “Why don’t you go tell your mom and grandma that we’re here, and we’ll see you inside?”

Oliva wriggled down, pleased at having been given a task, and dashed back to the house. Ronan gave Jon a small smile and said, “Told you.”

Walking through the front door was, as always, an explosion of affection and noise. His eldest two brothers and their families always came for Christmas Eve, so the full complement of eight plus kids greeted them, everyone jostling for attention and shouting. Ronan did his best to greet them, handing out hugs and kisses like candy on Halloween before his mother’s voice rose above the din, calling for some semblance of order. The mass obediently parted, and Mia appeared, beautiful and smiling. She was wearing an apron over her Christmas sweater, and one of the dogs was at her heels. 

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Ronan said, and she held her arms out to him for a hug. 

She was reassuringly solid in his arms; sometimes it seemed like she was thinner, more ephemeral every time he visited, but her spirit was always strong as steel. He kissed her cheek, breathed in the familiar smell of her perfume, and stepped back. “You look beautiful, Mom.”

“Oh, stop it,” she said. “Now introduce me to your guest, you were very mysterious about it on the phone.”

Ronan stepped aside and looked over to Jon, who was hanging back by the door, seemingly a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of people crowded into the hall. For a moment, Ronan wanted to back out, say Jon was just a friend, but then he met Jon’s eyes and found himself saying, “Mom, this is Jon Lovett. Jon, this is my mom. Jon used to be a speechwriter at the White House, and he’s a screenwriter in LA now.”

“Very impressive,” Mia said. “Nice to meet you, Jon.”

“It’s an honor,” Jon said, stepping forward at last, gaze darting from Ronan, to Mia, to the circle of watching faces. “Thank you for letting me crash your family holiday gathering, Mrs. Farrow.”

“It’s Mia, honestly,” Mia said. Jon’s face went through a series of emotions that made Ronan have to smother a laugh. “As you can tell, we already have an army, it’s hardly an inconvenience to add one more. And Ronan never brings anyone home, so you must be something special.”

“Don’t say that, his ego’s already big enough,” Ronan said, heat rising to his face. “We’re going to get settled in my room, okay?”

“Of course. Kids, give your Uncle Ronan and Jon some room.” Mia leaned over to kiss Ronan’s cheek. “I’m glad to have you home, sweetie. And I’m glad you brought Jon.” She gave Jon a small smile. “Don’t worry about rushing yourselves, take your time. I’m just getting dinner ready.” With a wave of her hand, the crowd dispersed and Jon and Ronan were left to take their things to the room designated as Ronan’s.

Jon waited until they had made it upstairs to ask in a hushed voice, “Did your mom just suggest we go have a quickie before dinner?”

“ _Jon_ ,” Ronan said in dismay. 

“What? She told us to take our time!” Jon hoisted his laptop bag higher on his shoulder and let out a low whistle. “But boy, you weren’t kidding. How many people are in this house right now?”

Ronan had to stop and mentally calculate. “Maybe thirty?”

“Good lord,” Jon said. “Are they all staying here?”

“No, some of them go to Fletcher’s house,” Ronan said. “It’s just a bit away. But Mom likes having the people around.”

“Your life,” Jon said, “is extremely weird. Do you know that?”

“I’m aware.” Ronan pushed open the door to the tiny room they’d be sharing and dropped his bags at the foot of the double bed. “You can back out any time you want. I think they’ve gotten the hint now.”

“Nah,” Jon said. He flung himself onto the bed and starfished out. “You aren’t getting rid of me that easily. I have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here to charm Mia Farrow, and I’m going to do it.”

Ronan laughed and sat down on the bed next to Jon’s legs. “Have I thanked you yet for doing this? It’s really—I don’t think I can tell you how much I appreciate it.”

Jon abruptly grew serious and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Ronan. There’s no need to thank me. When I came out—well, when I came out I was sixteen and fucking terrified. If I could have had someone with me to make it a little easier—and let me tell you, I think it would have been way easier if I’d come home with a boyfriend because at least then they’d have known for sure it wasn’t a joke or a phase—I would have taken it in a heartbeat. I’m honored you asked me.”

Ronan shrugged, looked down at his hands. “It was an easy choice.”

“Because I was the only choice?” Jon asked. “Kidding. Okay, so we have three days of Farrow Family Fun”—Ronan heard the capitals in Jon’s enunciation—“ahead of us, what should I expect?”

“Well,” Ronan said, “I think you’ll recall me mentioning a snowball fight.”

*

“Okay people,” Jon said. He was standing atop a small mound of snow in a down coat, a wooly scarf, and a frankly absurd bobble hat that Mia had given him before they’d gone outside. Jon had given Ronan a pleading look, but Ronan had felt Jon deserved it for not bringing appropriate winter garb. “We have a long and tough fight ahead of us, but I believe in each and every one of you. You are strong, and you are brave. We will face our enemies and we will defeat them.”

Ronan caught his sister Quincy’s eye and the both had to turn away to stifle laughter. Around them, the fleet of children Jon had martialed together were watching him in awe. Opposite them in the field, the adults, minus Mia, were behind a hastily-built snow-wall. “Puny defense,” Jon had pronounced at the sight of it. 

“Sieges never last well when the besieged are well-supplied,” Ronan told Jon. “And Matt keeps a flask in his coat.” 

“We have the strength of numbers behind us,” Jon said. “I don’t want to hear a negative attitude from you. Scoop your snowballs and get ready to charge.”

When Jon shouted for them to start, the kids tore off toward their parents, screaming as they pelted the makeshift defense with snow. Ronan was halfway after them when he realized Jon wasn’t following and he turned around to stare at him. 

“What are you doing?” he asked Jon, who was watching the chaos with a proud expression. “This was your plan.”

“A good general hangs back to ensure his forces have a solid point of retreat,” Jon said loftily. Ronan, who knew Jon better than that, suspected that Jon really just didn’t want to get snow down his shirt. 

Bearing this in mind, Ronan weighed the snowball in his hand, eying Jon. Jon was pink-cheeked with cold, beaming and smug, and Ronan loved him so much that his chest felt tight just looking at him. Ronan hefted the snowball, aimed, and flung it at Jon’s head. 

He caught Jon square in the face. Jon stumbled back, sputtering, then said, “Ronan Farrow, I cannot believe—” By this time, Ronan had managed to grab another handful of snow and fling it at him. Jon growled and charged him, tackling him back into the snow. 

Ronan went down with a, “Oof!” and started laughing as he fended off Jon’s attempts to push snow down his shirt. He hooked his leg around Jon’s hips and flipped them over, pinning Jon’s hands down. Jon stopped struggling almost immediately, his eyes flicking down to Ronan’s mouth. For a moment Ronan forgot they were in the snow outside his mother’s house, and in that moment he pressed his lips to Jon’s. 

Jon’s mouth was cold and chapped, but his kiss was so familiar, so necessary that it hardly mattered. Jon pushed up into Ronan, tongue slipping into Ronan’s mouth, and Ronan sank into it, heat rising in his chest—

A snowball hit Ronan in the side of the head. He sat up to glare at Quincy, who was gearing up to throw another one. “Hey!”

“No funny business, Ronan!” Quincy said. “This is war!” Behind her, Olivia was leading the charge to dismantle the snow fort. 

“I think you’re doing just fine without us,” Ronan said. Quincy chucked the second snowball at him. “Hey!”

“We’ll be the cavalry,” Jon called without sitting up. “Give us a second to muster our forces.”

Quincy raised her eyebrows at Ronan, but finally turned around to go back to shouting encouragement to their tiny army. Ronan reluctantly stood up, cold air rushing down his body where he had been pressed to Jon, and offered Jon a hand. 

“That’s one way to make sure they get the message,” Jon said as he got up. His mouth was slick and plump now, and his hat had come askew. Ronan longed to fix it, but he didn’t trust himself to touch Jon, not right now. “Come on. Let’s go grind these people into the dirt.”

“Those are my siblings you’re talking about,” Ronan pointed out, and Jon grinned at him. 

“Exactly,” he said. Then he let out a loud war cry and joined in the snow massacre. 

They came inside from the battle dripping and wet, all of them cold but laughing as they shook snow out of their hair and from their clothes. Ronan went to get drinks and ended up sipping mulled wine with his sisters while Jon sprawled out on the floor with some of the younger kids to put together a puzzle. Jon clearly was restraining himself from helping out too much—Ronan kept seeing him reach for a piece before instead gently nudging the kid beside him to look at it—and he realized, very clearly, that it had been a huge mistake to bring Jon home. 

“How long have you been dating?” Summer asked, breaking into his thoughts. She was curled up in a quilt, her hair drying in the warmth of the house. “You didn’t say you were seeing anyone.”

“It’s—complicated,” Ronan said. “It’s been, I don’t know, six months? Maybe a bit more.” He counted back in his head and realized no, it had been more like eight months since he had met Jon. It seemed like longer; Ronan felt relaxed around Jon in a way he did with few people. Perhaps it was Jon’s irreverence, because despite his jokes, Jon never traded on Ronan’s connections, never even asked to, and he never treated Ronan like he was special except on his own merits. 

They’d only been—not together, but _something_ for four months before Jon had left for Los Angeles, yet in that time Ronan had felt like he had found his place. There were times when he felt so drastically out of his depth, a child among adults, and there were times he had felt like he would never catch up with those around him. But Jon put him at ease. 

It wasn’t just the sex, which, while good, wouldn’t have been impossible to give up if it hadn’t come with giving up Jon. Ronan had wondered, several times, if he ought to say something before Jon left. If maybe it was worth the long distance to try to make it work between them, because Ronan knew there was something good between them, and he thought Jon knew too. But then Jon was moving, and Ronan had never said anything. Neither had Jon. 

Ronan downed the rest of his wine as an excuse to get up. In the kitchen, he poured himself another glass and committed himself to helping his mom with the rest of dinner. She put him to work mashing potatoes, and by the time Jon came wandering in looking for him, Ronan had worked up a decent sweat. Jon leaned against the counter beside him, a beer dangling from his fingers. 

“I can’t believe you do this every year,” he said. “I thought Passover at my parents’ place was wild.”

“Thanksgiving can be just as bad,” Ronan said. “Though that’s only one day.”

“One day for you,” Mia retorted. “I’m prepping for Thanksgiving like it’s the end of the world.”

Jon laughed and set his bottle down carefully. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mia said, “you’re our guest! Go relax. Go upstairs if you need to, Lord knows even I need an escape every now and then.”

“If you say so,” Jon said. He looked at Ronan, who shrugged, and then picked up his beer again. “Thank you again for having me, Mia.”

“We’ve only just gotten started,” Ronan said. “We’ve got two full days ahead of us, just you wait.”

“I think you’re trying to scare me off,” Jon said. “You should know me better than that. I love a challenge.” He moved toward Ronan, leaning in as if to embrace him, then dropped his arm and stepped back. “I’ll be in the room for a bit.”

When he had left, Mia cast Ronan a look. “You can go join him, you know,” she said. “I’m used to cooking for all of you. I imagine you don’t see each other that often, with him on the west coast. You should make the most of your time together.”

“ _Mom_ ,” Ronan said. 

“I’m serious. Send one of your brothers in here instead. Go.” Mia flapped a dish towel at him until he put down the potato masher. “Go!”

Ronan gave in and went upstairs, with a brief stop at the living room to pass on his mom’s orders. When he got to his room, he found Jon sitting on the bed with a laptop his knees, typing furiously. Ronan settled down beside him and squinted at the screen. It was one of Jon’s scripts, and Ronan watched as Jon typed out a line, bit his lip, then hit delete until it was gone again. 

“You’re distracting me,” Jon said without looking over. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Ronan protested. 

“You’re sitting there being handsome,” Jon said. He started typing again, got as far as two words before hitting backspace. “How am I supposed to concentrate with your golden visage two inches from my face?”

“You shouldn’t be doing work anyway,” Ronan said. “This is a holiday. Close the laptop, take a break.”

“Hollywood never sleeps, my friend,” Jon said, but he closed the laptop anyway and set it on the bedside table. “Your family is nice. A little loud.”

“You’re one to talk,” Ronan said. Jon clutched his chest as though he’d been wounded. “Yeah. They are. Sometimes a little overwhelming, but I love them.”

“And they love you,” Jon said. “I can tell.” He glanced at Ronan. “They seem to have taken all this well.” He gestured between the two of them. 

“I doubt they’re that surprised,” Ronan said. “But—you know.”

“Yeah, I do.” Jon scooted down the bed and turned onto his side to face Ronan. “And it’s like a trial run for when you do bring a boyfriend home.”

Ronan bit the inside of his cheek to stem the sudden swelling of sadness at those words. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess it is.”

*

Christmas Eve was, strangely, usually the calmest day of the holidays in the Farrow house. Most of the day was taken up with helping prep for dinner on Christmas day, with all of them rotating through the kitchen to take their turn chopping, peeling, rinsing, or dicing. In the afternoon, they went down to the pond to skate, stumbling on the rough surface and laughing when Summer attempted to do a spin like she’d learned as a child. Ronan built a series of small snowmen following a big snowman along the banks of the pond with the assistance of Olivia and her little brother Carey, and took a picture to send to Shannon. 

He returned inside to use the bathroom and maybe get a hot chocolate and was passing by the kitchen when he heard his name. Unable to resist temptation he stopped and peeked inside to see that just his mom and Jon were inside. Jon was sitting at the kitchen bar, patiently shelling peas while Mia rolled pie crust, flour dotting her cheeks and apron. 

“—brought you home, I worry about him, you know,” his mom was saying. “He’s such a smart boy, but sometimes I wonder if it was a good idea to let him go to college so young. He’s been ahead of everyone his whole life, and I worry that maybe it’s isolating.”

Ronan bit his lip at the sadness in his mother’s voice and wished he could step in and reassure her that he was fine. Maybe he had been lonely in his youth, and maybe his childhood had been shorter than most, but he had never suffered for affection or support. He still remembered vividly the nights when he would call home from law school, still a scared teenager in so many ways. She had never pushed him; many people assumed she had when they heard how young he’d been in college, but all she had done was recognize that he was ready for more. 

“Ronan’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Jon said. “And he’s immensely likable. I don’t think you need to worry about him. He charmed me in one sentence flat.”

“I know,” Mia said. “But I’ll always worry. Kids, you know. Do you want kids?”

“Uh—” Jon’s hands paused in the steady motion of shelling, and Ronan could see a sliver of his wide-eyed expression. “I mean, not right now but eventually? Yes, definitely.”

“There was a time I didn’t think I wanted kids, can you imagine?” Mia laughed brightly. “Not everyone is meant to be a parent, of course, but you’re so good with the kids. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“It was no problem,” Jon said, resuming his work on the peas. “I can’t imagine what Christmas shopping is like for you, by the way.”

“You just have to stockpile the presents throughout the year,” Mia said. “Though I admit it’s starting to get a little out of hand.”

“I thought it was bad enough for my parents needing to get presents for eight nights of Chanukah,” Jon said. “But they mostly just got us gelt. Which accounts for my stunning physique.” He patted his stomach. 

“Oh, hush, no talk like that allowed in this house,” Mia said. “You’re a handsome man. My son did well.”

“Aw, shucks,” Jon said, clearly uncomfortable. “He did okay, I guess. I did better.”

Mia gave him a warm smile, clearly pleased by the comment. “He did better than okay. You make him happy, I can tell. He smiles so much around you.”

Jon had paused in his shelling again, and there was an unusual stillness about him as he looked at Mia.  
“He’s a great guy,” Jon said quietly. “Smart, passionate, loving—you did an amazing job with him.”

Mia clasped a hand to her mouth, eyes welling up so that Ronan could see even from his vantage point. “Oh—that’s so kind of you to say, Jon.” 

Ronan shifted back behind the wall so that he didn’t have to look at them anymore, uncomfortable with listening to them praise him. His heart was running, leaping in his chest, and he kept replaying the words, _sweet, passionate, loving_ in his head, hearing them in Jon’s voice, so full of affection Ronan could hardly stand it. 

He couldn’t look at Jon that evening when they settled down for dinner; every time he tried, he heard those words in his head again and he would start to blush, squirming in his seat. Jon tried to engage him a couple of times in conversation, but after the third time Ronan passed the ball to one of his siblings, Jon stopped, only giving Ronan one last, puzzled look before engaging Ronan’s oldest brother in a conversation about New York real estate. 

After dinner, those who weren’t staying at the house began peeling off. There were many goodbyes and warm kisses, and by the time the last of the children had trailed out of the door with a, “Bye, Grandma,” Ronan was exhausted. He kissed his mother goodnight and went upstairs. He had just made it inside the room when Jon slipped in behind him, closing the door with an emphatic click. 

“Hey,” Jon said. “Is something up? Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Ronan said without turning around. He started taking of his shoes, only to be stopped by Jon’s hand on his arm. 

“This is what I’m talking about,” Jon said. “You haven’t looked at me since, I don’t know, this morning. Are you having second thoughts about all this? We can stage a screaming fight, I guess, and—”

Ronan turned around and pressed Jon into the wall for a kiss. Jon was soft and warm from the heat of the fire, his mouth sweet from pie and wine, and he kissed Ronan back hungrily, his fingers digging into Ronan’s biceps. Ronan pulled back to yank off his sweater, then got Jon’s off too, and then they were pressed together as they hadn’t been in months. Ronan gave a hitching sigh when Jon kissed behind his ear, grabbed at Jon’s hips, and bit back the urge to say, _I missed you_. 

Ronan took Jon to the bed and spread him out, kissed his nipples, his stomach, the soft curve of his belly, before licking at Jon’s dick. Jon moaned, then grabbed a pillow and pressed it to his face. Ronan pinched the inside of Jon’s thigh and said, “No.”

“But your family,” Jon hissed, letting the pillow fall away. 

“Guess you’ll have to be quiet,” Ronan said. “But I want to see your face.”

Jon groaned and flopped back. “Fine, whatever, just—don’t tease me. It’s been a while.”

“Has it?” Ronan asked, a flare of anxious jealous in his stomach. What if Jon said it had been a month, or a few weeks? “How long?”

Jon looked down. “You know how long,” he said quietly. Ronan’s heart leapt, and he ducked his head down so Jon wouldn’t see the happiness on his face. “Hey. Ronan.”

Ronan looked up, shivering as Jon ran his fingers across his jaw. “Yeah?”

“You should fuck me,” Jon said. “I, uh. I kind of miss it?” He was flushing down his chest, but his chin lifted combatively. “There’s stuff in my bag.”

“Did you—never mind,” Ronan said. “You know this wasn’t a booty call, right? You didn’t have to.”

“A boy can hope,” Jon said. “Come on, time’s-a-wasting.”

Ronan scrambled to dig out the promised strip of condoms and small bottle of lube from Jon’s bag. By now, he knew nearly every one of Jon’s sighs, knew the precise cadence of his moans, but in the forced silence all he had to go on was the movement of Jon’s body beneath his and the way Jon’s face went lax with pleasure when Ronan found the perfect angle with his fingers. 

Jon couldn’t hold back a quiet moan when Ronan pushed into him, and Ronan froze, wondering if he was hurting him. Jon’s eyes flew open and he glared at Ronan, urging him on by squeezing his knees around Ronan’s hips. Ronan got the hint. 

Jon was beautiful during sex, all traces of self-consciousness lost in the face of pleasure. Ronan enjoyed bringing him to that moment, to seeing all of Jon’s pretenses fall away as he arched up, hands reaching for Ronan like he couldn’t help himself. For all that they had done this dozens of times, it felt new. Maybe it was how long it had been, or maybe it was the unfamiliar surroundings, putting them into context. Ronan drew up Jon’s legs and fucked him hard, gasping as the rush of orgasm overtook him, and when he surface again, still hard inside Jon, Jon had jerked himself to completion, his chest spattered with come. 

They didn’t speak. Ronan pulled out, tying up the condom and dropping it in the trash before cleaning them both off with tissues. Jon was loose, lazy as he always was after being fucked, watching Ronan with hooded eyes. Ronan slid into bed beside him, curling up into Jon’s side, and pressed a kiss to Jon’s shoulder. Jon kissed the top of Ronan’s head, a fond gesture that made Ronan’s chest ache. Slowly, Jon relaxed into sleep, but Ronan remained awake for a long time after, listening to the rhythm of Jon’s breath.

*

Christmas dawned bright and gorgeous, the sky shockingly clear. Ronan and Jon came downstairs a little after seven to find Olivia and the remaining grandchildren sitting on the couch with Mia waiting with them. “I told them they couldn’t start on the presents until everyone was here,” Mia explained when she saw them. “We’re still waiting on Quincy.”

“Can’t we go wake her up?” Olivia complained. 

“No,” Mia said. “Have another cookie.”

Ronan left to get himself and Jon coffee from the kitchen and found Quincy in there. She held a finger to her lips as she poured herself a cup. “I need at least two cups in me before we start in on the gifts,” she said in a hushed whisper. 

“I understand that,” Ronan said. He tapped his mug against hers in solidarity and went out to rejoin Jon. Jon took the coffee with murmured thanks and moved to let Ronan sit beside him. Olivia was nearly vibrating with impatience, casting longing looks over at the mantle where her stocking hung, until at last Quincy joined them and the kids descended upon the gifts like one of the ten plagues. 

Ronan worked his way through his gifts, most of which had a practical bent. His eldest brother gave him a leather satchel for use when he went to England next year, and Summer gave him a fancy universal charger. Many of the rest were gift cards or books, at least until Ronan got to the last box. This one was fairly small and hastily wrapped, a tag reading _To Ronan, From Jon_ taped to the front. Ronan looked over guiltily and said, “I don’t—”

Jon waved his hand and said, “Get me back some time. Open it, open it.” 

Ronan peeled the paper off, partially because he could tell Jon was impatient for him to open it and partially because he wasn’t sure what to feel. He hadn’t expected a gift; Jon was already doing him a monumental favor just by being here, and they hadn’t discussed exchanging gifts. He let the wrapping paper drop away and opened the box to find a copy of the new _Deus Ex_ game. Ronan looked at Jon, who was watching him hopefully.

“You mentioned how much you liked the originals,” Jon said. “I don’t know how good this one is—I mean, I’ve heard pretty good things, but you know—anyway, the point is you gotta tell me how it is, I’m not going to have time to play it but I hear you’re going back to school for some reason, like you don’t have enough degrees to your name—”

Ronan reached over and pulled Jon into a hug. Jon relaxed into it after a moment of stiff awkwardness, tucking his head into Ronan’s neck. “Thank you,” Ronan said. He couldn’t recall telling Jon he liked the _Deus Ex_ games, but the idea that Jon had remembered something so trivial felt like—hope. 

After the gifts were opened, the family dispersed, kids going to play with their new toys, many of the adults going back to sleep. Jon joined their number, pleading jetlag, but Ronan felt too restless, energized all the way through his fingers. He joined his mom in the kitchen and pestered her until she gave him an onion and a knife and told him to start chopping. 

“I can’t believe there’s still more food to be made,” Ronan said. “It feels like we’ve been prepping for days.”

“Feeding twenty-odd people is no joke,” Mia said. “Fletch tells me I should just hire catering or a cook for Christmas, but it doesn’t seem right. Besides, what’s the point of having so many kids if I can’t force you to help out in the kitchen?”

“Excellent point.” Ronan chopped in silence for a bit, humming along to the music on his mom’s radio. Then he gathered the courage to say, “So what do you think of Jon?”

“He’s a nice boy,” she said. “I like him. He does like his analogies, though, doesn’t he?”

Ronan snorted at that. “He does. So you don’t mind that he’s…well, a he?” 

“Of course I don’t,” his mom said, setting down her spoon and turning to look at him. “Did you think I would?”

“No,” Ronan said. “But I needed to hear you say it out loud.”

“Oh, honey.” Mia came over to him and wrapped him in a tight hug, kissing his cheek when she pulled back. “You should know that you never need to worry about coming to me about anything. You’re the bright star of my life, you and your siblings. I love you all so much, and I want you to be happy above anything else.”

“I know,” Ronan said. “I know, I do.”

“Okay.” Mia kissed his forehead. “You seem to really love this boy. Do you think you’ll be bringing him again?”

And that—that was far blunter a question than Ronan had anticipated, and in the face of it he couldn’t think of what to say. His mom saw his expression and frowned, stepping back to put him at arm’s length. “What is it?” she asked. 

Ronan sighed and looked away, unable to bear her disappointment and unable to lie directly to her face. “Jon isn’t—we’re just friends. I mean—well. We’re friends, all right? We aren’t dating. I asked him to come with me because—well, I just did. It doesn’t matter why.”

“That is as it may be,” Mia said. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t in love with him.”

“And what if I am?” Ronan demanded. “What am I supposed to do about it? He lives in LA and I’m heading off to England this year. If he wanted—he would have said something, wouldn’t he? We’ve—he’s had the chance, and he hasn’t. It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Sweetheart, no one ever got anywhere by standing still,” his mom said, cupping his face in her hands. “And you know what I say about things that are meant to be.”

“That things only are or aren’t,” Ronan said quietly. 

“Exactly. You have to make things happen,” Mia said. “Don’t you think Jon might be feeling the same as you? Afraid to say something? But he came all the way across the country because you asked him to. That means something, sweetheart.”

Ronan met her eyes at last and found that she was gazing at him with a fond, loving exasperation. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you move on,” Mia said. “You make a clean break. You go to England. But I don’t think I am.” She patted his shoulders and released him. “Go tell him how you feel. If I’m wrong, well, I’ll show you where I keep the good whiskey.”

Ronan snorted and got to his feet. He was electrified with fear or excitement—it was hard to tell which. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Upstairs in their room, Jon was once again on his computer. Ronan closed the door behind him and said, “I knew you weren’t going for a nap.”

“Hey, I’m only on Facebook this time, I promise.” Jon turned his laptop around so Ronan could see. “No work being done here, I promise.”

“Good.” Ronan hesitated, then asked, “Would you mind coming outside with me for a moment?”

Jon opened his mouth, probably to make a snarky comment, then looked harder at Ronan. “Sure,” he said after a moment. “Let me get my coat.”

The land was still and quiet outside the house, the snow stretching out towards the horizon. They both stood looking out at it for a minute before Jon let out a low sigh and said, “I wish I could stay here.”

“Me too,” Ronan said. “I always do.”

“I’ve never been this relaxed in my life,” Jon said. “Does your mom put valium in her pie?”

“I think you’re thinking of the mulled wine.” Ronan turned to meet Jon’s eyes. “I have a confession to make.”

“Uh oh,” Jon said. “Should I be sitting down?”

“No—I don’t know,” Ronan said, already flustered. “Look, just listen to me for a moment without making a joke.”

“That’ll be a challenge, but let me give it a try.” Jon affected a serious thinking face, propping his fist beneath his chin. “Go on.”

Ronan rolled his eyes heavenward. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

“Because I’m devilishly charming?” Jon suggested. 

“That’s part of it,” Ronan agreed. At this, Jon finally seemed to realize that Ronan wasn’t playing along, and dropped his hand to his side. “There are a lot of reasons, I guess. I told you I asked you to come with me because you were the best option for this. Which is true, but not for—it’s true because I wanted you here.”

Jon looked at him for a moment. “Were there other people you could have asked?”

“Yes,” Ronan said frankly. “I have friends in DC who might have done it, a couple of guys from law school. But I didn’t want anyone else. Just you.”

“Oh,” Jon said. “Well, that’s convenient, because I came here because I wanted it to be me. I didn’t want you to ask anyone else.” He stepped closer to Ronan. “Last night—I thought this might be a, I don’t know, a last hurrah before you leave for England. But if it isn’t—”

“It isn’t,” Ronan said quickly. “No last hurrahs, not with you.”

“What does that mean?” Jon asked. He was very close now, his head tilted back very slightly. 

“I don’t want there to be a last anything with you,” Ronan said. “I want to wake up next to you and argue with you and I want you to spend every Christmas here with me. I might be a little in love with you.”

“Oh good,” Jon said. “I might be a little in love with you too.” He smiled and pointed up. “And look. Mistletoe.”

Ronan looked and saw only the eaves of the roof. “I don’t see anything,” he started to say, and then Jon was kissing him.

“I always tell people that long distance relationships are stupid,” Jon said when they parted. “But fuck me if I didn’t want to try it the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“You hardly noticed me when we first me,” Ronan said. “Not until I sassed you.”

“No quicker way to get my attention.” Jon lifted his hand to trace Ronan’s lips. “And don’t be ridiculous. Of course I noticed you. I saw you the moment you walked into that ballroom. When Tommy brought you over, I was sure I was going to say something completely idiotic. You really don’t know the effect you have on people, do you?”

“Some,” Ronan admitted.

“Well,” Jon said, “then you don’t really know the effect you have on _me._ ” He kissed Ronan again, searchingly, and Ronan forgot everything he’d been thinking of saying. When Jon pulled away again, he made an embarrassingly needy noise and tried to chase his mouth. 

“I think a lot about what you said that first night,” Jon said. “’You have to make your own happiness.’ I mean, I kind of got that and, you know, it’s kind of reductive in some ways—but the point is that I still think it’s profound. I’ve been thinking about what makes me happy a lot, and the one thing I’m really missing right now is, well. It’s you.”

“Jon,” Ronan said softly. “You’ve already got me. No need to sweet talk.”

“I want to.” Jon tugged Ronan in for another kiss and grinned. “Come on, genius boy. Let’s go celebrate your glorified pagan ritual with hot chocolate and goose.”

As they went inside, he imagined them doing this again next year, and the year after. The future stretched out in front of him, an infinite series of possibilities, but all with Jon, and then the present came into focus once again. The smell of roasting turkey was in the air, mingled with the fresh smell of pine, and Jon’s hand was warm in his. Jon looked back to smile at him, eyes bright, and Ronan—he smiled back.


End file.
